She had the feeling that everything about the man, perhaps everything in the room, had been constructed; could, if necessary, be dispensed with at a moment’s notice, only to have a different man leave the room and walk into a different identity that would itself be complete and singular. But she didn’t know why she thought that. On face value, he was just another man, still south of forty. Brinsley Miles. Not his real name, but the one she would know him by.
